Immature
by sillythings
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was attractive and intelligent. He was also an immature dork.
1. Chapter 1

**Of Immaturity, Genius and Fan-clubs**

**I know the "pulling plaits" thing has been done before, but I just wanted to play with the idea a little. Constructive criticism welcome ****. Yes, I made a Bewitched joke. Because I am also a dork.**

Sherlock Holmes had a fan-club. An honest to goodness fan-club. She shouldn't be surprised really since she was a founding member and president of the Sherlock Holmes fan-club for a very long time. She just thought it was her own private fan-club. Meetings were held late at night, in her head, after glass of wine or two. But this was real. His new found fame had brought him a whole new group of clients, but along with that came the admirers. Young girls in deerstalkers and short skirts, older women in deerstalkers and scarves, young men in long coats and suits. Molly couldn't fault them for admiring his cool style, his cleverness, his overall dangerous and detached air. She admired it on a weekly basis. On the other hand, she knew about all this years ago! And here were all these new groupies acting like they discovered Sherlock Holmes was hot.

But if she was honest with herself, and she tried to be, he was also kind of a dork. And she would know. It takes one to know one after all. When you stripped him of the epic coat, the designer suit, and rapid-fire deductions, what you had was an overgrown 12-year-old who liked to play with gross things, pull faces, and pester the girlish woman who allowed him far too many liberties in her place of work.

Molly glanced at the man in question, currently occupying her lab. Honestly, look at him there, blue eyes popping behind the safety goggles as he heated up something dank and foul-smelling in a flask. Not that she looked much better in her own goggles and gloves, but then, she didn't have people throwing themselves at her. His hair was a ridiculous, fluffy mess, standing out from his head because he'd repeatedly scratched his head in frustration. Thanks for sharing your dandruff there, Sherlock, Molly thought testily. How many cultures had he contaminated with that little snowfall?

And the demands! Like a little baby, he was, always yanking on the sleeve of her lab coat, needing something.

"Molly, bring me a new slide."

"Molly, give me a spleen."

"Molly, lie on the floor and hold your left arm in the air. I need to test a theory."

Molly, Molly, Molly. Always asking for things, but never for the one thing she'd gladly give him.

She was glaring into her own microscope now, trying very hard to get her own work completed, when she felt a tug on her braid. She looked up in astonishment at the petulant face of the world's most annoying consulting detective. "Did you just pull my hair?" she gasped.

"You are not paying attention. I need another flask and a cup of coffee," he demanded. No, I'm sorry. No, please. No, thank you. Why was she hopelessly in love with him again?

She pondered this as she made her way slowly back to the lab from the canteen with a side trip to the supply closet. She may not be the most captivating of women (not like some of the ones she'd seen approaching him lately), but men liked her. She was feminine and friendly. She was very clever and very accomplished when she wasn't being compared to the genius currently rampaging through her lab. Compared to the average person, she was most definitely above average. You didn't get to her position at this age if you weren't pretty darn good at what you do, though you didn't have a lot of dates when you worked as hard as she did, either. She was a successful woman in a male-dominated field. She was awesomeness in a lab coat. Plenty of other men could see this—maybe she'd start to give those others more of a chance. That Darren—the one in the main office with the glasses- was fit and always laughed at her jokes. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Sherlock Holmes! Who will you harass for eyeballs when I'm married, living in the country and having Darren's babies? All alone, you'll be, except for John, Mrs. Hudson, your legions of fans…she sighed. No, there probably wouldn't be a vast hole in his life if she left. And she never really liked the country anyway.

"Finally!" he huffed in impatience when she returned with the requested items, "Get lost in conversation with _Derwood_ from admin?" he sneered. Molly blinked up at him. How did he _do_ that? How could he know who she'd been _thinking_ about?

"Aside from the dreary fact that he chose to work in administration—hospital administration, Molly-the man is obviously well on his way into a gambling addiction, and his complexion and menu choices in the canteen hint at high blood-pressure. Despite his generally fit appearance, he is on the verge of adult onset diabetes or heart attack, and early widowhood would just not suit you, Molly. I also suspect a slight unresolved Oedipal complex based upon his choice of neckties."

Molly stared. Offended, angry, maybe a little turned on.

"And, his sense of humor is abysmal," Sherlock added after a moment and held the new flask up to the light for inspection. _Or not_.

"Derwo-, I mean, _Darren_ is a _very_ nice man, and I don't see anything wrong with working in administration, I mean…" she began, flustered.

"Ah, coffee!" he interrupted and took the cup from her hand. The nerve of the man!

He made the most absurd faces whenever he took a sip of the coffee, wrinkling his nose, twisting his mouth up. And how many chins did he have when he did that? Ludicrous! And the belch afterward! He couldn't even be bothered to excuse himself. Had he really deleted all social niceties or was it just around her?

"Pardon you!" she said primly. He didn't even look up, as he replied "Transport." Yes, right, bodies as transport. Let those bodily functions rip as needed. The work, the mind was paramount—who cared what the body got up to as he turned his marvelous mental powers to the problem at hand. Speaking of which, Sherlock in his mind palace was a genuinely alarming sight as he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and waved his hands as if he were being attacked by flies. You really couldn't call it sexy. The seizures in the midst of his genius were frightening, disturbing. Fascinating, maybe, but sexy, no. She supposed it said something that he allowed her to be in the same room with him when he retreated into his own mind like that. The last time he'd needed to do this while at the lab, he'd made two interns cry before they conceded to leaving their experiments untended while he fell into his trance.

She wondered what the sighing girls in his fan club would think if they could see him lost in the depths of his mind palace. Would they be scared of his slack-jawed intensity? And while she herself had found his cropping of her dead co-worker strangely compelling, what would those ear-hat wearing women waiting for a glimpse of him outside think of it. Would they be appalled at his disregard for the dead? Or if they had seen him last week when he was suffering from a summer cold? Would they go gooey over the way he honked his nose on the tissue she'd handed him (she thought she was going to go mad if she heard one more sniffle) and tossed it over his shoulder? He really was an uncivilized child. A child who was currently grinning wickedly to himself as he watched the ooze in the flask coagulate and release an even fouler odor.

"Smell that!" he said triumphantly, waving the stinking container beneath her nose. She took a whiff and shrugged helplessly. "That is the perfume of conviction! Oh, yes, Molly, we've got him!"

He did a little awkward wiggle of victory as he grinned at her. Oh, wasn't he a clever boy! Wasn't he just! Come now, pat me on the head. Tell me how brilliant I am! Yes, yes, yes, damn it, he was.

"That's unbelievable!" She sparkled up at him, and as he began to explain how this nasty bit of science would convict a very terrible man, she saw the burning genius of him. The halo of delight that glowed around him as he solved the puzzle—Oh, right, that's why she loved him. This was what made her want to reprimand that other little boy, spank him soundly and tell him to behave himself! Don't let the fire of your brilliance be dimmed by such puerile antics.

But those antics made him human. And she liked humanity. She liked pulling it apart. Looking at its innards laid bare. Finding its secrets and carefully putting it together again. She loved his coolness, his cleverness, but the base humanity of him was what made the light of his intelligence bearable by mere mortals like her.

Anyway, she'd never been one to be put off by disgusting things. Her own sense of humor was rather morbid and immature (see Mrs. Hudson, re: hip. Whoops!), and she rarely irrigated the bowels of corpse without making some kind of poop joke. She had a very high tolerance for what turned other people off. Found the repulsive and hideous fascinating, in fact. So there it was, she was forlornly in love with an obnoxious child of a man who had hordes of groupies falling at his feet. Unless he decided to grow up, she couldn't say that she truly held out any hope that he could ever feel the same. But then again, everyone knew what it meant when the boy you liked pulled your hair.


	2. Chapter 2

_As requested by __**crooney83**__, I've added Sherlock's perspective. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy __._

Sherlock Holmes had a fan-club. Sherlock Holmes had fans. Sherlock Holmes had women (and men) coming up to him in the street, waiting behind corners, offering themselves up for his deduction, his seduction. They were insistent. They sent him love letters both heart wrenching and obscene. Sherlock had thought The Woman had been dangerous and obsessed with sex, but apparently she was just the first of many raving fans. These new admirers tended to either plot crimes or plot sexual acts that he had never even known were possible. Sometimes they were plotting both at the same time. It was a little disturbing. It was most definitely distracting, and not in a good way. Thank God for the quiet of the morgue. Even the most persistent devotees had not managed to find their way down to his refuge among the dead.

However, the one constant in his clinical sanctuary wasn't around as much as she used to be, and when she was, she was quieter. Not nearly as pliable as she had been. If he thought about it, he could figure out why. He did not think about it. Not his area. He had more important things to think about. Murder, for example. He wanted to figure out someone else's guilt, not consider his own.

He had carefully filled a flask with a stinking substance he intended to distill down. The task itself was simple, could have even been carried out at 221B—though Mrs. Hudson and John would not appreciate the fetid odor rising from the substance as he stirred it carefully and adjusted the flame of the gas burner. To be honest, he was looking forward to hearing Molly share her professional opinion on his results. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that he missed her.

Molly was not the same around him. She still assisted him, but the flirtatiousness, and that was what it was—he could identify it now—was gone. Even at her most direct, Molly had never been as overt and vulgar as the offers being made to him now on a regular basis. It was not in her nature—though now he could recognize her as a sexual creature, he did not take time to think about Molly's desire for a relationship, or for him, if such a desire still existed—which he doubted. It did not suit his purpose to think about such things. The work was always paramount. The one time he did think about sex and women, The Woman, it was for the purpose of the puzzle, for the case at hand. Sherlock did not see how women, a woman, could have any other kind of impact on his life if it were not for a mystery—well, Mrs. Hudson was an exception. She was his housekeeper. Not quite the same.

Recently though, Sherlock had been initiated into the language of seduction. _Let's have dinner. My flat is just a cab ride away. Deduce me. Seduce me_. He considered these women (and men) as he set up his equipment on the lab table and subtly observed Molly as she carried out her day's work nearby. Molly was an integral part of his work—he never thought to say it. Her importance should be obvious for anyone who cared to see. Love or sex had no place in the lab. Sherlock wondered why he did not feel more relieved that Molly seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

For the most part, Sherlock Holmes did not consciously notice Molly Hooper's looks. He did not waste time wondering why she decided to pair a ruffled green blouse with baggy trousers and a pink cardigan. If he noticed anything about what Molly wore, it was usually her lab coat—that white and shining symbol of her hard work and expertise. Except for that unfortunate (_exciting, infuriating_) black cocktail dress at Christmas, her clothes, though generally utilitarian and comfortable, always had one ruffle too many. She draped herself in floral prints and fruit patterns. It was almost as if she wanted people to remember she was a woman but had forgotten just what that looked like. The one time Molly really tried to show everyone what a woman she was, she went overboard and reminded him as nothing so much as a little girl wearing her mother's lipstick and heels. It was a parody of what she assumed a woman was, what he wanted—tight black dress, red lips, high-heeled shoes. Sherlock would admit, as he had recently been told, that every disguise had an element of the true self in it—Molly was indeed a grown up and desirable woman, but she was not a vamp. Heels were not practical on the slippery floor of the morgue, and Molly Hooper possessed no artifice at all.

In general, Sherlock Holmes approved of all this. He needed Molly for her razor sharp eyes and intellect, both of which were decidedly adult and quite well developed. She was the only pathologist he would work with-or who would put up with him, though he honestly believed her to be head and shoulders above any other in her field. Due to the constraints of time—she worked long hours, did research and lectures in her time off—Molly did not focus much on her clothes, her hair. She cared more for her work than whether she was in the latest fashion. As a woman in her field, it was likely an act of self-preservation that she did not present herself as conspicuously sexually available—she wanted to be respected for her work, not her body. Though many wouldn't hesitate to use every advantage, Molly let her performance in the lab speak for itself. She had the confidence in her work that she needed no other advantage. Despite her attempt at Christmas, Molly's sexuality was as buttoned up and closed off as his own. Molly was safe. Usually, Sherlock found that reassuring.

If forced to admit it, and John had tried to force him on one occasion, he found Molly attractive insofar as those things go. The same way he could admit to finding the stars beautiful, he could admire Molly's sparkling brown eyes and smooth skin. Her breasts were small—though he never said that was a _bad _thing, he had stated huffily to John. He merely observed it as a fact. He liked the fact that she was slim and was able to move so quickly around the lab and morgue. She practically scampered about some days. Her quickness both mental and physical made his work easier. Large bosoms and round hips might earn leering glances from men, but it wouldn't help you wrestle a 200 pound corpse from drawer to dissecting table. She was surprisingly strong for her size. He liked that element of surprise. There was power in that slim, flexible little body.

During that one case, when he had her lie on the floor and contort herself to mimic the original position of the murder victim, that was…well, that was rather brilliant. He stored an image of her in his mind palace, simply to help solve the case of course. Even though that case was now solved, he did seem to keep coming back to that picture of her on the tiled floor, arms thrown out, her hair a halo of…Point being. She was efficient. She got what he needed quickly. She didn't have to take time to sashay and wiggle her hips or bat her eyes.

If prodded further (and John had certainly tried, though he did not succeed), Sherlock would go so far as to say that she looked nice when she wore lipstick. She didn't wear it often though, not anymore—although again, he ignored the reason for that. What use was lipstick when she was reading out results to him or explaining a particular biological reaction he'd never seen before? If she were the type to constantly fret about her make-up, he wouldn't work with her. There were experiments to be run. Crimes to be solved. Time spent primping was wasted time.

That was why he approved of her hair. The side part did suit her face much better, softened it, but he liked her braids and her ponytails for their practicality. No fuss. More time then spent in the lab, helping him. Recently he had overheard Darren from accounting on break, speaking of Molly's hair. Sherlock wasn't spying, no, he had a professional need for that milk he stole from the break room refrigerator—on the other hand, he didn't need a moody, weepy pathologist grieving another failed relationship—he had to make sure Darren was not the wrong sort. He felt far more responsible for Jim Moriarty getting close to Molly (how close Moriarty had gotten to her Sherlock would not even consider) than he would ever tell. Darren was sitting at one of the little tables, confidentially whispering to a coworker that he wouldn't mind wrapping his hands around Molly's ponytail and giving it a good yank.

Sherlock was mystified. It was a sexual comment—Darren didn't abuse women—that much was obvious—he loved his mother too much to disrespect women. Sherlock had to be honest about his deductions of that aspect of the man's personality. Whatever Darren's fault, he wasn't that type, but he _did_ want to pull Molly's hair in some sort of erotic fashion—the man's tone made that much evident. The comment made Sherlock think of riding crops. But he didn't quite get the concept. He considered his own long fingers tangled in Molly's shining hair, giving it a pull. The situations and positions where such an opportunity might be afforded to him (and Darren) suddenly presented themselves quite vividly, and after a moment hot indignation that Darren should be reducing such a professional as Molly to little more than a sex object, he tamped down on those thoughts and immediately set himself on difficult mental exercise, cataloguing the varieties of mud and soil in the London area. It was a herculean task that never failed to soothe him when faced with a potentially emotional situation. Lately, those situations had revolved around Molly more and more, but he chose to not think about that. He thought about mud instead.

Though now in the lab, with her so close, as he sat rather bored as he waited for his flask of gray muck to boil, he found his thoughts did wander back to those imagined situations, especially since she kept flipping her braid angrily over her shoulder as she glared into her microscope. Probably worrying herself over Darren. Ridiculous. Darren and his hair pulling. His brain calculated the length of the cab ride and the cost of the fare to get to Molly's flat from St. Bart's as he observed her from the corner of her eye as she frowned at her data.

She was very close to him. They were sharing counter space and the same computer. For the sake of science, he reached out and grasped her braid and gave it a quick, experimental (_satisfying_) little tug. Hmm. Hair was soft, washed last night, smelled of sandalwood. Perhaps Darren wasn't a complete pervert for—

Molly jerked her head up, her brown eyes wide and blinking.

"Did you just pull my hair?" she gasped. Ah. He had. She didn't like it? Strike one for you, Darren, he thought triumphantly. Now, what did he need her to do for him? Her sighs and her swishes were distracting him. Send her on an errand. He could use some more equipment for this distillation, and he definitely felt a bit…dry-mouthed. Thirsty? Thirsty. Parched, in fact.

"You are not paying attention. I need another flask and a cup of coffee," Sherlock replied imperiously. No need to let her know she'd been the subject of experimentation. John had informed him that most people did not care for that sort of thing, though Molly had always been a most satisfying and willing partner in his experiments.

Molly blinked at him for a moment before turning without a word to go fetch the flask and coffee. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of her braid as she bustled out. Yes, good. Now he had the space to think and focus on the flask of bubbling stink before him. It really didn't take that much mental effort if he were honest with himself. Sherlock knew what he was going to find. It was just a matter of time, letting the heat refine it, allowing him to sort out what was of most significance from the rest of the muck.


End file.
